


surrender yourself

by sanguine_puddles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, High School, Hopeful Ending, Intimacy, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Poor Prompto Argentum, Self-Harm, and his caring best friend (read: boyfriend), i love this sunshine boy, interpret as you will actually, platonic or romantic, your choice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguine_puddles/pseuds/sanguine_puddles
Summary: It's getting colder, late autumn nipping the air.The temperature's dropping and Prompto's mood goes with it.He can feel it. Slowly creeping, squeezing inside his chest and making his thoughts lag. The sudden lack of interest in his hobbies and constant fatigue no matter how much he sleeps. The urge to talk, talk, talk and move restlessly at the most inopportune moment. The craving to consume everything in front of him and grieve the shapes of his body.The days drag.





	surrender yourself

**Author's Note:**

> **t/w: HEED THE TAGS! there is some cutting and blood, so if you find that triggering please avoid this! also, some self-deprecating thoughts! brains can be mean ᕦ(ò_óˇ)ᕤ**  
  
[Dadzawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dadzawa) betaed!

It's getting colder, late autumn nipping the air. 

The temperature's dropping and Prompto's mood goes with it. 

He can _feel_ it. Slowly creeping, squeezing inside his chest and making his thoughts lag. The sudden lack of interest in his hobbies and constant fatigue no matter how much he sleeps. The urge to talk, talk, _talk_ and move restlessly at the most inopportune moment. The craving to consume everything in front of him and grieve the shapes of his body. 

The days drag. 

He's exhausted to the point of nodding off in his classes and he knows his grades are slipping, but he_ can't _get himself to do anything about it. 

Prompto can tell that Noctis worries. He always does when Prompto gets into these moods, but Prompto always brushes it off with an, _"I'll be fine."_

Noctis will stare, purse his lips, sigh, then plead something along the lines of, _"Tell me if it gets too bad, yeah?"_

Prompto always smiles and nods, feeling his throat go tight knowing that he never will. 

But today when he asks, Prompto hides his face and just walks away. 

Because today was a waking nightmare. His anxiety just wouldn't leave him alone and the depressive thoughts wouldn't _stop_. 

And he knows, he _knows_ okay? 

He knows he should take the help Noctis offers. 

_He knows_. 

And yet… 

That little voice in the back of his mind whispers. _All he'll do is turn a blind eye, just like your parents. Not that they'd ever actually notice, with how often they're gone. _

He tells himself, "No... he won't." 

_He'll laugh at how weak you are. Pathetic._

His eyes prickle. He's so _tired_. "No." 

_He'll sneer at how ugly you are. Who would ever want to be friends with you, let alone look at you?_

He hiccups, his nose stings. 

He suffers by himself, alone in his room. Falls asleep on the floor with rivers on his flushed, freckled cheeks. 

He sleeps through his alarms. Or maybe he's so dazed he just doesn't notice. It's supposed to be a Friday, but he doesn't know how accurate his brain is at the moment. 

_Oh. I won't miss much_, Prompto thinks. 

His phone pings annoyingly and he fishes it out of his pants pocket with what little energy he can muster. He fell asleep in his school uniform. 

It's a single message from Noctis. 

**catfish (Noct) [14:57]:** i'm gonna bring you your homework once school's out. you've never missed a day because of this before... 

If Prompto had access to his emotions right now, there's no doubt he would be mortified. 

But all he can feel is numb. 

And he _hates_ it. 

His body turns hot and pins prick his skin. 

_I hate this_. 

He needs something to distract him, _anything_. 

His fingers twitch and he longs for red. 

He pulls himself to his feet with newfound energy, feels his muscles protest, feels the stickiness of his tear-trodden face and oily hair. 

_I'm disgusting. _

_I hate this. _

He stumbles into the bathroom and rifles through the cabinet behind the covered mirror. He finds what he's looking for in seconds. 

The light glints off of it and Prompto admires it for a moment. 

He doesn't realize he's shaking until he almost pricks his finger on the blade's edge. 

He hovers for a moment over his wristband, but ultimately decides he doesn't want to deal with _that_ can of worms today, so he shucks his slacks to the floor and settles on the lip of the bathtub. 

Then he drags the blade across his flesh, over faint, old scars. It stings, beads a vibrant red, never deep enough to drip. 

He's never been able to slice deeper; the thought of splitting skin open--_gaping_\--makes him nauseous. 

But the cat scratches, the ones that _irritate_ for weeks and distract from his turmoil, always induce a sick satisfaction. 

It makes him feel something and that something is _pain_. _Pain_ and a flicker of glee. 

His hand moves, dips, over and over along pale skin from just below the juncture of hip and leg to mid-thigh. 

It paints a pretty picture. A multitude of mini strings of beads lying on top of his right thigh. 

He doesn't hear the knock on the front door. Or the pair of footsteps, one taking residence in the kitchen, the other quickly climbing stairs and entering his room. 

He's only aware of another presence when a gentle hand is placed on his own, lifting it away from its rhythm of carving. 

"Prompto." 

It's a familiar voice, one that has Prompto blinking in confusion. His mouth falls open slightly, a questioning noise passing his lips. 

He watches as the hand takes the razor from his fingers and sets it on the sink counter, seeing, but not completely aware. He's floating outside of himself, lost between the folds of numbness and temporary sensations. 

"Prompto," the voice says again. 

A slow hand settles underneath his chin, guiding his head towards the voice. His vision is blurry and he blinks hard to clear it. 

Deep blue eyes stare. 

He knows he's being picked apart behind the carefully blank mask Noctis is wearing, but he can't bring himself to care in his detached state. 

He just stares back, breath shaking. 

"Prom?" 

And he sees the lips move, hears the soft query seconds later. 

All he can do is blink. 

Noctis exhales heavily through the nose and swipes his thumb over Prompto's jaw. "Okay," he says quietly. 

Noctis stands from his knelt position and quickly washes his hands. He grabs a fresh towel from the shelf and soaks it in warm water, presses the excess from it and turns back to Prompto. 

He kneels in front of Prompto again and holds the towel above his thigh. "This might sting a bit." 

Noctis is careful, touch light as he rubs away crusted and fresh blood alike. He puts pressure on the ones that still bleed until they stop, then goes over everything again for good measure. 

He drops the towel next to Prompto's slacks and searches through the cabinet underneath the sink for the first aid kit that holds some antibiotic ointment, gauze, and a bandage. 

He slathers the ointment over the cuts, vaguely hopes they don't scar too badly, and places a large piece of gauze over the area. He finishes by slowly wrapping the bandage around his thigh, working from the bottom edge to the top and back again, ties it off at the end. 

Prompto is slowly coming back to himself, can feel his body again as Noctis puts some pressure on his toenail to check his blood flow. His palms are sweaty on the lip of the bathtub and his thigh flares in heat. It makes his neck prickle. 

He can't control the whimper that escapes him. 

Noctis is on him immediately, cradling his face in his hands and shushing him, muttering sweet nothings to keep him calm. 

Prompto's shaking and he gasps as reality crashes into him. 

_I'm so stupid,_ _stupid._ His mind races. 

"_Hey_." 

Prompto hadn't realized he'd squeezed his glassy eyes shut until Noctis brought him back out of his head. 

"Stay with me." 

Prompto jerks his head, hopes it's perceived as a nod. 

Noctis pulls their foreheads together and hums an old Lucian nursery rhyme until Prompto's breathing settles. 

He draws back, picks the towel back up and uses a clean part to wipe the tear-stains from Prompto's face before tossing it away. 

He grabs Prompto's hands and stands. "Let's get you changed. Do you think you can stand?" 

Prompto frowns, grunts as he pulls himself up using Noctis' hands. He grips Noctis tightly as he wobbles. 

Noctis gives Prompto a moment to blink the lightheadedness away before he walks them into the bedroom and sits Prompto on the bed. 

He rummages through Prompto's dresser and comes back with a pair of soft sweats and a well-worn chocobo t-shirt. He helps Prompto dress despite his protests and runs fingers through greasy blond hair in an effort to soothe any embarrassment. 

Prompto sighs and leans into the touch, wishes he could drift off surrounded by that warmth. The bags under his eyes are heavy. 

Noctis nudges the heel of his palm against Prompto's temple. "Ignis is downstairs prepping an early dinner," he whispers. "Do you wanna go down there? Pretty sure he said he was making tea." 

Prompto nods, absentmindedly rubs a hand over his leg to feel the bandage through his sweats. It's warm. It tingles. 

He wants to dig his nails into it. 

"Come on." Noctis grabs the hand and slots his fingers through Prompto's, doesn't let go as they make their way down narrow stairs and settle at the small dining table. 

Ignis stalks around the stovetop working on something that sizzles and the soothing smells of tea and mouth-watering food floods their senses. Steam dances in the air from the mugs on the table. 

Prompto releases Noctis and reaches with both hands, wraps them around the white ceramic, and pulls it to his chest in a huddle. His chill fingers sap up the warmth and he basks in it before taking a cautious sip of the gold liquid. 

He hums. "'S sweet." 

Noctis grabs his own and leans on the table once he's deemed Prompto satisfied. He looks to Ignis. "Hey Specs. What is this?" 

Ignis pushes his glasses up his nose, doesn't take his eyes off of the pan on the stove. It's some type of meat. "Chamomile. Sweetened with blue agave syrup." 

"Ah." 

They drink their tea in silence, Ignis cooking in the background serving as white noise. 

Prompto feels himself start to droop, rests his empty mug on the table. "What time is it?" 

Noctis checks his phone. "Four O-seven." 

Prompto lies his cheek on the table, facing Noctis. It's cold. 

Noctis sets his phone down and copies the motion. "You good?" 

"Been better." 

Noctis snorts, shifts to press his face into the table. "No shit." 

Prompto huffs and pokes the mole next to Noctis' lips. "At this exact moment, I'm okay." 

Noctis sighs long and slow. Prompto can barely hear it when Noctis says, "You need help Prom…" 

Prompto closes his eyes, feels his fingers twitch against Noctis' skin. "I know. It… It's _hard_." 

"I know." Noctis sits up, places his hand on top of Prompto's outstretched one. "I--I can… try to set you up with my therapist at the Citadel. If you want." 

Prompto flips his hand over to grasp Noctis', kneads circles in comfort. He's anxious, but he knows he needs to do this. "I think that's a good idea." 

Noctis squeezes his hand in relief, the strings holding his shoulders tight release. "Thank you." 

They stay like that, hand-in-hand, with flickers of smiles, cataloguing already-memorized features. 

Ignis joins them some time later with three plates of spicy ribs sided with an avocado salad and a refill on tea. 

Noctis pulls Prompto's (and his own) homework from his backpack as Prompto sits up. He hands it over. Prompto groans at the offending papers. 

They work on it while they eat, Ignis pitching in whenever they get stuck or do something wrong. 

It's distracting. 

It's a _good_ distraction. 

And it'll get better. 

**Author's Note:**

> (* ^ ∆ ^;*).｡*♡ happy birthday prompto!!! i'm <strike>not</strike> sorry you got the brunt of my projections,,
> 
> the title is a lyric from noah kahan's ["false confidence"](https://youtu.be/dWRWuY3pV2c)


End file.
